From this window, the trees look bare, but leaves fall like tears
of men who sleep in the cells near yours. Ive written you so many letters
that will go unread, my ruminations will not save you. I write and I write
and throw out the evidence. Winter will bury the fall as summer will
supersede spring; you will spend over a quarter of a century behind bars.
Our mother will not survive your incarceration or for that matter her own.
No one empathizes with the mother of a murderer. You do not understand
the pain you have caused, you are heavily medicated, you are not here.
Actually, the problem isnt that you arent here now, the issue is that you
were never here, that our mother was never here, and Ive been conversing
with shadows. Yesterday, she told me her insurance wont pay for her medication
and she swears someone is trying to get into the house she doesnt live in anymore.
She tells me the bastards are going to steal your mounted deer head.
Let them, I tell her, let them fall under the scrutiny of those creepy eyes.
In five days, well celebrate Thanksgiving without you, remember our last one
together, how you shot a buck, followed the blood trail, but never found him,
six points, you told everyone, six points, and that was all, you carved the turkey.